


the shadows you threw

by Neffectual



Series: Havoctober [2]
Category: BritWres, Professional Wrestling
Genre: Deal with a Devil, Gen, Horror
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-10
Updated: 2017-10-10
Packaged: 2019-01-15 11:34:01
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,016
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12320247
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Neffectual/pseuds/Neffectual
Summary: Jack has been prepared to give up a lot for his dream - but there's something to which he will not stoop.





	the shadows you threw

The first thing he notices about them is that they don’t cast shadows like mortal men, that their feet don’t touch the ground like mortal men, that their faces don’t respond like mortal men. Jack’s breathing is faster as he watches them whirl, a macabre dance, every motion calculated and concise. He doesn’t feel like that when his feet move, doesn’t feel like that even when they invite him to join in; he trips on his own feet, he can’t help the way his grin wants to form, he doesn’t know when to stop and when to start, and they can smell weakness on him like blood in the water.

It’s not that he isn’t good at what he does, that’s not something that he has to worry about, but the way he breathes is harsh, rough, hard work – all those around him breathe in small, tight, controlled ways, their lungs not bellows like his, they have no need to fan to flames, for they are already on fire, whereas he is simply embers, kindling catching, the first stutter of orange flame dancing drunkenly along a branch. Compared to the rising fires around him, he is small and developing, as they roar, red-orange fingertips reaching for the sky.

Some nights, it’s all too much, and he just sits and stares, watches the inhuman shapes twist and writhe, watches how they shrug off their bodies and move, how their hands meet as they test and taunt each other. People tell him that he can learn a lot from just watching, but truthfully, he’s too often overtaken by the beauty of it all – and more than that, he’s not like them. He’s not able to lift free of his mortal body, not able to slide away from his skin or set his soul free to stand and strike without his carcass slowing him down.

There’s something about the figures he sees, night after night, that captures every ounce of his imagination, and they’re like a beacon in the dark, the way they light the way, but he just can’t seem to follow them. Everything they do is vibrant and colourful, and more often than not, he finds himself alone in the dark, staring enviously into the light, as if that can do anything, as if his very act of observation will change them, as if they’ll edit themselves just for him.

When one comes to the edge of the dance and holds out a hand to him, there’s nothing he can do but take it, reach out and let their fingertips brush, sliding his fingers over a palm rough with scars, feeling the burn of light seep into his skin as if he, too, can be something not entirely human and not entirely alien, as if he, too, can be a being without a shadow that moves like molten lava and burns everything it touches. He takes the hand, and it’s as if the fire itself sears through his veins, and he becomes alive.

Moving with them is everything, being a part of something bigger than himself, and it soothes the loneliness he’s never admitted to in his soul. He talks a good game about never going home alone, but the truth is, his bed could always be full, but his heart has always been empty; no longer, these hands everything, this dance everything that he’s never needed to feel, filling up all the space inside him until he can feel it pressing against his throat, squeezing his breath out of him. He feels surrounded by their presence, coated and covered, like being alone has only ever been a memory, and it’s so good, so good – and he knows better than to trust something that feels like that.

Pulling away from that hand is the hardest thing he’s ever done, all those whispered promises in his ears, their breath hot against his skin, but the smell of brimstone is heavy on the air, and he’s not a fool. They promise him the world, promise him the world at his feet, a crowd crying his name, a lover in every city, and it’s so tempting to just step into the fray and let the current drag him under. But Jack’s never been one to follow the crowd, and while there are jokes about how good he looks on his knees, he doesn’t like to kneel for too long, he’s got his pride and his own strength, and will not be subservient.

“You’ll never make it on your own,” the voice whispers, a last, chilling comment before the hand withdraw, that sense of belonging vanishes, and he’s just alone, staring at an empty ring before a show starts.

He shrugs. They might be right, he might never make it, but he sees the faces of the boys the spotlight loves, sees the way their faces fall outside of the view of the crowd, their jaws slack, their mouths stitched shut to keep the PR machine rolling on, and he doesn’t want that for himself. There’s a lot he’s prepared to do to make it, he’s put his body through hell and he’s not afraid of the mental effort it’s taken to get where he is, either. But he’s going to do this on his own merits, not on the basis of selling his soul to something, especially when he can’t test the veracity of its claims. Sure, it’s worked for a couple of them, but are they happy? Is it really what they wanted?

Still, it never stops him watching, seeing those flat expressions fill with so much light and emotion when the light hits them, the way they move under spotlights and the way they shine in front of an audience. In comparison, the reactions Jack gets are small, humble efforts, and yet – they’re his. He knows he got them on his own, and they’re his, because every time the spotlight hits, his shadow performs with him, echoing his movements, chasing him across the canvas. It’s a reminder that some things are too precious to sacrifice, even for dreams.


End file.
